My Father

My father was an Army Captain in WWII. He described what it was like when he and his driver saw the town of Dachau. “A pretty little farming village, green grass, a church spire, neat little houses—a German Currier and Ives. From the village you could see the smokestacks of the ovens, just a few miles away. A terrible rage shook me. There is no way the townspeople didn’t know about the ovens. There was a sweet horrible smell of burned flesh.”